


Visceral

by bornof_sorrow (wintersfire)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Game of Thrones spoilers, Implied/Referenced Incest, Public Masturbation, Rage, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersfire/pseuds/bornof_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of the Bastards, Jon's head is wrecked.</p><p>Everything belongs to GRRM, no infringement intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visceral

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Battle of the Bastards for the third time and thought 'how fooked up is Jon's head by the time he is bashing Ramsey's head in?' This would not go away, so it had to go on paper. 
> 
> Please heed warnings.

Jon couldn’t see very well: his hair was in his eyes, and there was snow blowing in his face. He lifted his hand to push back his hair and there was matter and blood, drying into a scum on his hand. He stood, swaying, in the bitter wind and tried to work out what he was seeing.

Blood. Brains. Other shit. A movement caught his eye and he could see someone mouthing something at him. Not Tormund, but a wildling, someone he’d seen before. He couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the roaring rush in his ears. He tried to concentrate but he was too bloody knackered. Not one part of him wasn’t aching or painful. He flexed his hands but his swollen knuckles stopped his hand from opening fully. The cold bit into his skin, numbing his face and the back of his neck. His legs were holding him up but only because he had trained them to stand when they wanted to collapse. He again pushed at the hair in his eyes, but his hands met more gore. He was coated in it. He looked down and he was dressed in it. How many had he killed? Thirty, fifty, more? There was no way to know. 

He stumbled to the wall and leant, seeing people hurrying across the courtyard, the rushing in his ears making it impossible to hear clearly. Sound came to him in blasts and warped, he couldn’t make sense of it. He didn’t want to try. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, waiting patiently for fuck knows what.  


Winterfell. 

He was back in Winterfell, but nothing was the same.

He breathed in, trying not to gulp, drawing in air through his nose and out through his mouth. His mouth hurt. What had he done to his mouth? Images flickered across his mind’s eye: Rickon’s eyes as he ran towards Jon, terrified and hopeful and exhausted all at the same time, the way the arrows jerked his body but he tried to keep running; the battle, screaming his rage and fear to force the swords and arrows away with his own spray of destruction; the darkness of the crush as he was forced into the ground with the dead and the smell of blood and piss and shit, another time death spat him out and refused to take him. Sansa. Pulling him out of his frenzy with such a look on her face that he never wanted to see again.  


Catelyn Stark had looked at him like that before. Often. Some transgression, some crossing of a line only she knew was there. Well, fuck her, she was gone and he was here. He was bloody here. 

He was cold. It was freezing cold, but the Wall had been colder. He was used up by cold; there was more to do, but not by him. Not right now. He stared down at the gore and saw the battle skin he wore, the blood of other men. He’d wiped his face when he’d wiped Rickon's, when he stood over his body, but he knew he must be armoured in filth. His hands had shaken, by cold or fear or horror. The blood was all those things and he wanted it off. How would he get it off? Then he felt the rage, cutting through the cold. What was he thinking about this for? What did it matter?

But it fucking did matter, it mattered right now and he glared at the towers and buildings, wanting an answer, and the answer came: the hot pools in the godswood. He wanted heat and he wanted silence and he wanted to be clean and he wanted anything that would assuage his rage and fear and grief and he was scared that he was unravelling and that he couldn’t stop it.  


He pushed himself away from the wall. Jon swayed as the line between the grey sky and the grey ground tilted, forcing him to concentrate on moving his feet forward, one after the other like a child. In this way he plodded to the godswood, changing mud for snow, moving from shouting and clamour until he could hear only his own breath under the distortion that snow made, chopping off sound and muffling movement. He was gasping again and he gave into it, drawing in deep, freezing breaths, trying to fill his lungs. His mind was both woozy with lack of air and sharp, hard. The trees were bare like bones. Life was dying everywhere, and he was part of it, part of the bringing of death: he was giddy to tear and rip and cleave things apart. He could. 

He _wanted_ to.

There were spots of colour at the edge of his vision, so he stumbled into the snow and scooped up slush, rubbing at his face with his dirty hands. The snow was pink, flayed pink, and rage, the rage rose again. He started to run (stumble) to replace his churning thoughts with movement, the itch to destroy spiking under his skin.  
At the pool he didn’t pause. He fumbled at his buckles and laces until he was bare, clothes all over the place. Gods it was fucking freezing, so cold his stones tried to get back into his body. He threw himself into the pool and the heat made his skin sting and his eyes water but he ducked into the thick, sulphurous water and he was back in the dark place of nothing. Nothing. 

No thought, no sound, no life, no thing. Void, Dead. Over.

He wanted it all to be over. Like a child crying for comfort, he wanted to go back to the silent void and if that was _it_ , all there was, why were people afraid to die? He wasn’t afraid (he longed for it) but worse than that he wanted to send everyone and everything there. This world was madness, laughable, chaotic, senseless madness. The beast inside him roared its bloodlust through his veins. The beast wanted to wipe everyone out, silence them, give them the peace of death and it was terrifying in its temptation and simplicity. 

He flung his head out of the water, gasping to fill his lungs, and the grey sky gave him no answers. He wanted to colour that sky with blood, stain the ground with it, reduce every living thing his sword could reach to the darkness. There were no gods, no reason, no purpose but struggle and pain and death.  


He scrubbed at his face and hair, scraping off the layers of filth. Men were filth, he was filth. He’d tried to be honourable but what did that mean? It made no more sense than anything else and it was painful. Resisting, not taking what he wanted. He wanted to maim and kill and fight and fuck and do it again and again because it meant nothing. Honour was a delusion which men clung to, pretending that something mattered. He’d been inside the mind of a beast and he knew there was a beast inside his mind. Men had to keep that beast close to fight and struggle. He saw what he was.

He submerged himself again and then floated back, sourness in his mouth and pain everywhere. Her hair had been bright against the grey walls, the grey faces, the grey mud. He wanted to find the peace of homecoming and family but he’d never really known either in the way he was supposed to. Maybe that was why he wanted to strike her and shake her and fuck her. His sister, who’d never felt like his sister, or his ‘mother’ (hair just as red, just as lovely), who’d never been a mother of any sort to him, yet the only one he’d ever know. She was dead and gone, safe from his reach because he couldn’t answer for what he might do to her if she were here now. His heart bounced in his chest with his fury and lust; he was beyond pushing it down back inside him, so he roared it into the bitter air and ducked into the heat again, forcing his lungs to fight to their limits until he raised his mouth for breath. 

He grabbed himself, feeling the iron hardness of his cock strong against his palm. He squeezed against the pain in his hand to find the familiar pain in his cock as he fisted it, tight and rough, feeling the creep of old shame across his neck. Fuck that. He’d tamed himself, made himself undemanding and quiet from a small boy, trying his best to be worthy and, if there were gods, they’d surely laughed at his efforts. He jerked and twisted in his arousal, bringing his thighs out of the water as he pulled up onto his toes, gloriously vicious in his tugs, panting and groaning his excitement. 

He thought of everything he’d been holding back, the urges that he’d censored with his shame – the times he’d wondered how his father fucked Catelyn, how he’d imagined his own hands and tongue on her, forcing her to scream and beg, forcing her attention. He imagined image after image, her hair, her breasts, her parted legs, her taste. He pictured her disdain turned to a frenzy of lust (I saw you Catelyn, when I turned to manhood, watching me). That bitch had hated him but she was fascinated all the same, seeing his young father and Eddard’s lust every time she looked at him. He understood, he did. He’d been shocked himself as he’d come to recognise the things in her eyes, even though he couldn’t name them. There’d been many dark, stifled hours when he’d had her like a wolf, like her husband, like a man, like a lad, or servant or master, fucking her and fucking her until his hand ached and his mind shut down. Sometimes he’d allowed his eyes to grow heavy and dark with the thought of it and looked her straight in the eye. She knew. And she hated him even more for it. That’s why he’d left, in the end. 

That’s why he’d been at the mercy of red-haired women ever since. Now she was dead and there was Sansa to torment him, like her mother reborn.  
Jon let go of his cock, feeling it throb, his stones heavy and demanding attention as he dropped back into the pool and used his legs to push him to the shallow edge. His chest and shoulders were freezing, his cock sticking up for his hand, his legs and backside in the warm pool. He tipped his head back and groaned aloud as his hands closed again around himself. He was close now.

Sansa. Hair of fire and skin of snow, everything about her a Lady. She needed him and he needed her, she was something left from when life made some sense. But coming back had loosened something within him and this day had unleashed his bile and his power and his want. He wanted her undone and open beneath him, bared, marked, owned. (Bolton had owned her with much less right than Jon). She’d been bartered to the Crown, to the Imp, by her own will to Bolton and Littlefinger. Sister had meant something, still meant something, but what that something was had changed. She was his to protect, but his honour meant nothing in the void. He’d tried to behave as before but he was going through familiar motions. His gut didn’t give a fuck for honour. His gut wanted to wrap her legs around him and put his mouth to her breasts, his fingers to her cunt and his cock as deep as it would go. 

If she were here now he’d rip her clothes away and pull her onto his cock and let loose his rage until he was empty enough to force himself to quiet and honour. The thought of her wet, soft and bare (and maybe her mother watching from some death-land) had his hand dropping and squeezing and his wrist working until he cursed his release over his hands and up his chest. He collapsed back, sluicing come from his skin, half-cold, half-hot, empty. Fuuuck.

His panting did not change the colour of the grey sky, but struggling wet into his filthy clothes brought the purple white glow of twilight winter. Movement was painful and exhausting, but he turned towards Winterfell and what it held.


End file.
